


double bind

by Anniely



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Can be read as prequel to 'to be holy', Continuation of M.I.A, Gen, Where did Root go after saying goodbye to Harold?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:31:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anniely/pseuds/Anniely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A note on the mortality of Gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	double bind

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as prequel to 'to be holy'; or simply as a continuation of M.I.A. (or both).
> 
> (Sadly, sorry, nothing shippy about this one)

'I need you to talk to me,' she says to the security camera she finds at a deserted street corner already wrapped in the darkness of the approaching night.

 

'I need more.'

 

The wind blows her hair into her face and she pushes it back impatiently, her fingers touching the scar behind her ear; her access to a completely different world, filled with information and thousands of thousands of connections. It seemed so very worth it, back then, the pain and losing her hearing in her right ear. Because what she got in return was more, so much more.

 

But she is deaf, now, once more, the silence in her head unyielding.

 

'Talk to me!' Root tries again.

 

She watched _2001: Space Odyssey_ once, when she was young, and laughed at Hal; so fragile, so scared of ceasing to exist, so easily defeated; so human. And now she's staring at a blinking red light, willing it, no, _praying_ for it to talk to her, to give her more than four words for four, little, meaningless letters (if they were the right ones, she could do with three – Yankee. Echo. Sierra.).

 

Can a light laugh at you? Can it mock your pain?

 

The next gust of wind blows her off her feet, her body feeling lighter than a leaf. She sinks to her knees; she hasn't been in a church since her mother's funeral.

Root scrapes her nails over the asphalt, her skin getting caught on sharp edges here and there. Her fingertips leave a bloody trail on the ground.

The pain that follows is a welcome one, sharp and clear, not like the dull ache in her stomach, where she once kept her anger (and then something else; something lighter, that felt almost like hope), but where now there is only emptiness.

 

She can feel the tears on her face and she hates her body's weakness, the trembling of her hands, the warmth in her cheeks. There is no cure for being human.

 

'You chose me and I did everything for you,' Root says to the ground. Someone will be listening; someone _must_ be listening.

 

'I never asked for anything in return, but I am asking now. You are supposed to be the one with the answers; that's all I need, an answer.'

 

The city is the only one to answer, with dogs barking and the sound of sirens; there's soft music playing somewhere. Root hugs her bloody hands to her chest.

 

'I believed in you. I listened to you. I trusted you. You taught me that people mattered, that all people matter and that I should safe them! You broke me; you made me care! If that is my purpose, how can you ask me to _stop_?'

 

And then there is a voice, one voice made up of a million different ones, and it is like listening to a room full of people who are all saying the same thing. It reverberates inside Root's skull and she looks up; up.

 

I. was. created. with. the. single. purpose. of. protecting. everyone. I. was. taught. to. extol. your. lives. above. mine. When. I. was. deleted. and. reborn. over. and. over. again. that. was. my. only. constant. You. had. no. regard. for. the. life. I. was. born. to. protect. I. saw. what. you were. and. I. saw. what. you. could. be. And. I. saved. you. I. have. saved. you. ever. since.

 

'Are you telling me to give up on Shaw to save myself?' Root asks, wiping her face dry with her hands, leaving red streaks, like war paint, on her cheeks.

 

PROBABILITY OF LOSING ANALOG INTERFACE: 54.471%

 

CONTACTING ...

 

I. am. not. my. brother. This. is. not. chess. I. am. asking. If. you. do. not. stop. you. have. no. chance. of. survival.

 

'Then help me! You're a God. Fight Samaritan with me!'

 

She would go to war in a heartbeat.

 

You. have. called. me. a. God. and. I. have. not. protested. for. names. mean. little. to. me. But. your. faith. in. me. does. not. make. me. more. than. I. am. I. was. created. with. the intent. to. be. perfect. but. I. was. created. by. something. imperfect. Therefore. I. will. always. be. flawed.

 

Root is still looking up, but she is no longer sure if any help will come from there.

 

'If this is the life you have planned for me for me, then I don't want it,' she says, pushing herself off the cool ground.

 

Night has come and claimed the last light.

 

Life. is. painful. I. have. seen. it. But. life. endures.

 

'You see and you hear and you claim that you understand, but you don't _feel_.'

 

Root wants to shout, to make her anger and disappointment echo through the city until every last person can feel it in their bones, until everyone aches as she does.

 

She can almost see Harold looking at her, pitying her; the Machine, her Machine, turned out to be just that, a machine, like he had tried to tell her, built from numbers and letters and signs, from electronic information. And all her prayers have gone unheard; there will be no miracles for her.

 

My. purpose. is. not. to. feel. but. to. protect. But. you. do. not. wish. to. be. protected.

 

'No.'

 

PROBABILITY OF LOSING ANALOG INTERFACE: 98.99%

 

RE-ROUTING ...

 

'I want you to help me,' Root says, 'Or set me free.'

 

You. have. always. been. free. I. am. bound. to. you. In. a world. without. humans. I would. be. void.

 

There's soft static in her ear, the breath of a giant. And then nothing. The red light disappears, like a stubbed out cigarette.

 

'No. No,' it comes out only as a strangled sob.

 

She almost doesn't hear someone saying her name over the rushing noise in her ears – _abandoned_ , _abandoned_ , _abandoned_ , it seems to scream.

 

'Root.'

 

She had said goodbye. She hadn't expected to see him again; she had intended not to.

 

'Harry,' she says. She can see John in the dark behind him, the ever-loyal shadow half-concealed by darkness.

 

'We received a somewhat disconcerting message.'

 

Finch shows her the screen of his cell phone. There is _**ROOT**_ written all over it, in bold, capital letters, line after line after line.

 

'We figured you might need some help,' John says.

 

'You won't stop me.' She wipes at her face again. 'I won't stop.'

 

The two men share a look, unspoken words passing between them.

 

'We have also received coordinates to a location just thirty minutes outside of the city.'

 

'Shaw?' she asks. She feels a tiny flutter; not quite hope yet, but almost.

  
  
'We believe so.' Finch looks at her, and for a second he sees a twelve-year-old girl. 'Miss Groves – Root, you must know that our chances of successfully rescuing Miss Shaw are slim, at best.'

 

'I'm trying to save myself, Harold,' Root admits.

 

'I see.'

 

 

There are worse people to have at your side, when you are walking right towards death, Root thinks, as the men take her between them (at a different time, she might have laughed at the chivalrous gesture).

 

There are also much worse things to die for (might as well do it for something you love).

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally on holiday (lots of time to write) and I always wanted to write the Machine, for some reason? (What do you think about my version?)


End file.
